Page 24 of Nerdelicious
He nods and then covers his mouth with his hand and shrugs.
“They wouldn’t let you work in the kitchen because you can’t talk?”
He shakes his head and then pulls out his notebook, writing something inside and tilting the page in my direction.
Didn’t try.
I stare at the words for a few long seconds. “You know, there’s an option on most cell phones to have it read text out loud. If you were wanting to have a conversation without having to use a pen and paper, I mean.”
His eyes widen.
I shrug. “Might be another way to communicate. If you wanted to. Thanks for... I don’t know. Good night.”
I rush inside and then up the stairs without looking back.
After getting ready for bed, I open my window and hoist myself onto the roof.
And it’s here that I can finally breathe, looking up at a blanket of stars so overwhelming and vast, all my worries are miniscule by comparison.
Inevitably, my thoughts return to Beast.
Why can’t he talk? I didn’t notice any physical scars.
I should be contemplating my future, my plans to save money, my successful return to New York. But instead I’m contemplating dark eyes and a silent man.
Maybe we’ll spend more time together at work. Carpooling, at least. A frisson of something skitters through my belly. Part nerves, part anticipation.
All will be well. As long as I keep my mouth under control.
I scowl up at the gorgeous sky above me.
Such an impossibility. Nothing will be well.
Chapter Seven
“Someday I wantto meet a girl who’s not in a costume.”
–Overheard at Comic-Con
Every kitchen I’ve ever worked in is basically the same. There is a lot of hustle, chopping, cleaning, and it’s hotter than Genosha right after Magneto bombed the island. The only difference at Bodean’s is the head chef.
Lucas doesn’t bark orders and act all high and mighty like most head chefs I’ve worked for. Not counting Scarlett, of course. And he’s probably as old as Granny, or older. He’s from “the DeeperSouth” Eliza tells me, which is her explanation for why he talks slow, and sometimes I can hardly understand him, but his fingers are fast and deft and he preps plates faster than Wally West. And the food, well that’s been a surprise, too, considering the stickiness of the refurbished barn floor out in the main area.
Ranger sticks his head through the swinging door, cowboy hat bobbing. “I’m gonna relieve security for a twenty-minute break. You got a plate for the big fella?”
Lucas, in front of the stove, points his spatula at me.
I’m already on the move. “On it. I’ll finish cleanup when I get back.”
I prep a plate of the specials for Beast—tonight it’s shrimp and grits sautéed in butter with a side of corn fritters. I haven’t tasted it yet, but it smells divine.
It’s not the bar fare I’m used to, even though there are the requisite burgers, fries, and hot wings. Lucas insists on purchasing only local produce and meats and there are surprising options on the menu, including Cajun boil, Hot Browns, and delicately seared catfish with a side of fried green tomatoes.
Leaving the kitchen, I turn a corner at the bar where the same three thirty-something men have been perched every night this week, drinking identical draft beers and arguing about whether the New York Sharks’ record would be better with Brent Crawford as a player instead of a coach. I head down a back hallway, sidestepping one of the roadies carrying a speaker to the stage on the other side of the building.
Ranger’s office is where most of us take our breaks because there isn’t any kind of employee break room.
I knock on the closed door before swinging it open. “Hey.” I set the plate on the table in front of the couch where Beast is sitting, elbows on his knees, cell phone in his hands. The couch is worn brown leather. In the back of the room sits a heavy wooden desk, filing cabinets, and an old-ass computer that was the height of technology before I was born.
